When The Jig Is Up
by All For Obscure References
Summary: When the Ministry passed the tidily-named War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act, Hermione Granger never thought it would stand and promised she'd fight it with everything she had. And she did. After two and a half years though, the law remains and Hermione can no longer escape its grasp. Past demons and her new marriage threaten the witch. Rated M for language and adult themes.
1. The Most Fearsome Witch

The Most Fearsome Witch and the Worst News In England

* * *

December 24, 2015 - Short note: First, as a long-time writer, but first-time fanfiction publisher I am incredibly excited to finally be sharing my work and to have the opportunity to receive feedback from an amazing community of authors. Second, if anyone happens to find grammatical errors (except for starting a sentence with 'and'—I do that knowingly), spelling errors, or canonical errors, I would really love to know—I understand the frustration of slogging through mistakes and want to make your journey hassle-free. Third, for any readers who stumble across this piece and are interested, I am looking for a beta reader. And lastly, I do solemnly swear that I am up to no good and also that I am most certainly not the dazzling J. K. Rowling. With that in place, please enjoy.

* * *

 _January 10, 2005_

Michael Clafton was an impressive sort of man. He always appeared well put together, stood a solid five foot eleven with an easy smile, and carried himself with an air of accomplishment. All of this came in handy, he had found, in his line of work: it was important as Minister for Magic to have an aura of assuredness and power—or at least enough to get what he wanted done. But seated at his desk this Monday morning, tiredly rubbing his eyes, he knew that none of this would make the slightest difference to the witch he was about to see. She was a front-runner for the most stubborn, pig-headed, and dedicated person he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

Had they met under different circumstances, he thought he would have very much liked Hermione Granger, but over the scores of meetings, hundreds of hours of overtime, and thousands of letters she had inflicted upon him for the past two and a half years, any affection for the witch had far diminished. By her doing he wasn't home for dinner most nights, had to work Saturdays and Sundays, and dearly missed seeing his wife and daughter. He just wanted this nightmare to end: the bad publicity, the hearings, the unrelenting badgering. He just wanted Hermione Granger gone.

Four years ago, when he'd been elected minister, he had been excited at the chance to lead a Wizarding World that was struggling to put itself back together. He was thirty-three, happily married, a new proud father, and was ready for anything. After twelve months spent tripping and stumbling as they tried to rebuild, losses from the Second Wizarding War still crippled the country; their numbers were continuing to decline and economic growth was at a standstill. The idea of a Marriage Law had been proposed to him then, dug up from some twelfth century ordinance and rewritten to remove the bits about human slavery. Six months later, he had signed off. At the time he'd had no idea of the hell that was in store for him and now he found himself wondering if he ever should have signed that cursed law at all. If he had known what was to come, would he still have scrawled his name on that parchment?

* * *

 _June 18, 2002:_

"No, no, I'm sure that the Bulgarians would be happy to help, Monsieur Bouchard…yes, yes, after that whole Karkaroff scandal… yes, well…" he said into the phone, twirling his quill absentmindedly as the French Minister rattled on and on about international security precautions. From what he could discern, it seemed to be about background checks for apparition licenses, but he couldn't be sure. Suddenly there was a _bang,_ and a frenzy of muffled shouts, thuds, and crashes erupted outside his door. Any semblance of concentration that he'd been able to muster before, vanished. Now, impatience and frustration furrowed his brow—he needed to end this pointless conversation to take care of whatever was going on outside.

"Monsieur Bouchard," he said, fruitlessly trying to gain the other man's attention but the Frenchman plowed on undeterred, and he could only grit his teeth and wait politely for the diatribe to run its course. Oh, the things he put up with for the sake of international peace. "Yes, yes… ah, Monsieur Bouchard… oh, well, I'll get that taken care of… of course… yes, of course… yes, I will get back to you on that… uh-huh… yes, yes… well something's just come up… oh yes, very much… my apologies… yes, next Tuesday at eight thirty works just fine… yes, good day now Monsieur Bouchard." And the phone finally went dead with a click as he dropped it into the cradle. Loud footsteps thundered outside, coming closer and closer.

"No! No you can't do that!" He heard Eleanor, his secretary, screech.

Hermione Granger barged into his office at precisely 9:02 am; which he knew because she threw open his door with such force that the clock fell off his desk and broke. With eyes blazing, the sheer amount of uncontrolled magic caused her hair to crackle and spark and a golden aura to surround her; she looked the picture of the haloed Joan of Arc charging into battle. So this was her, the famous war hero, he thought.

"Explain yourself." She ordered, brandishing that day's copy of the _Daily Prophet_ at him, its headline loudly declaring: _Ministry's New Marriage Law: Mandated Love?_ And, suddenly, he remembered that the press release had gone out that morning.

But he never had the chance to respond as she raged on, pacing rapidly and gesticulating wildly. "What rubbish is this? This is absolutely preposterous! Asinine! Archaic! It's practically criminal! What the hell do you think you're doing, Minister?" Only then, did the witch pause in her bellowing to draw breath. He was stunned slightly speechless.

"Do you know just how many different ways this _atrocity_ violates people's rights? You can't control lives like this! You're a hypocrite, you know, for all your bloody talk of change, of not making the same mistakes again, you're acting just like Fudge would have: lying, manipulating, and controlling people to benefit some misguided _greater good!_ " Her tone had turned cold and acidic, derision dripping from every emphasized syllable. "Laws like this were abolished three hundred years ago for _good reason_! I – I cannot believe the Ministry is attempting to do something like this! And you, Minister! I _promise_ you that I will fight the Ministry with _everything_ I have! I will not let you hurt people like this! I. Am. Warning. You. Back. Off. Now." Hermione Granger finished in a deadly growl. Then she flung the newspaper on his desk and stormed out, slamming the door behind her, the lights flickering in her wake.

For the next two and a half years, she would keep that promise day in and day out.

Michael stared at the closed door for a minute, dumbstruck, and then, shaking his head, flipped over the paper to _Ministry's New Marriage Law: Mandated Love?_ plastered across the front page in big black print, a copy of the law printed below it.

He knew what it would say, he had read over those words hundreds of times.

 _Whereas, the events of the Second Wizarding War were felt strongly by the English Magical community and;_

 _Whereas, in regards to such, there has been a significant blow struck to the Wizarding population of England such that eradication became a threat, and;_

 _Whereas, in years since no sufficient rebound of population growth has occurred so to recover from the loss of the II W.W. and;_

 _Whereas, all unmarried witches and wizards between the ages of 23 and 38 and of English nationality determined on the date of June 18, 2002 will be considered eligible and are lawfully required to adhere to the following. Therefore, let it be authorized:_

 _I._ _That every eligible witch and wizard shall be notified by the Ministry of Magic of their matched partner on the date of September 18, 2002 or upon the date of reaching eligibility._

 _a)_ _That all partners are to be determined through magical and biological tests conducted by the Department of Marriage and Family Stability. Tests will evaluate magical compatibility, intellectual compatibility, fertility compatibility, and magical potential of possible offspring. Partners will be assigned based on the highest overall compatibility._

 _b)_ _That matches may only be reassigned with a unanimous Wizengamot ruling._

 _II._ _That a couple must legally marry within three months of the younger individual's above notification._

 _a)_ _That couples married prior to September 18, 2002 do not have to comply with Article II and couples where both individuals are ineligible at the time of marriage do not have to comply with Article II._

 _III._ _That couples must meet with an assigned representative from the Department of Marriage and Family Stability to review and complete a marriage contract and all other marriage licensing paperwork._

 _a)_ _That couples married prior to September 18, 2002 and couples where both individuals are ineligible at the time of marriage do not have to comply with Article III._

 _IV._ _That couples must meet with a Ministry of Magic appointed officiator for the exchange of vows and bonding ceremony._

 _a)_ _That couples married prior to September 18, 2002 and couples where both individuals are ineligible at the time of marriage do not have to comply with Article IV._

 _V._ _That consummation must occur within twenty-four hours of marriage._

 _VI._ _That couples must live together, share living quarters, and sleep in the same bed._

 _a)_ _That couples are subject to random checks from representatives of the Department of Marriage and Family Stability to verify that Article VI is being met._

 _VII._ _That couples will live in the providing partner's place of residence._

 _a)_ _That the providing partner will be determined by a Ministry review of income, employment stability, and personal holdings._

 _b)_ _That couples may name the providing partner but the providing partner must prove a six month history of employment and a stable source of income._

 _VIII._ _That divorce and annulment are illegal._

 _IX._ _That within six months of marriage, conception must have occurred._

 _a)_ _That couples are required to report for bi-weekly appointments at St. Mungo's to track conception until pregnancy is verified._

 _b)_ _That couples married prior to September 18, 2002 must conceive within three months of September 18, 2002._

 _c)_ _That couples where both individuals are ineligible at the time of marriage must have conceived within six months of eligibility._

 _d)_ _That extensions will be given at Wizengamot discretion in the event of infertility and consequential treatment._

 _e)_ _That witches must provide sufficient medical proof of infertility._

 _f)_ _That wizards must provide proof of natural infertility or proof of spell damage._

 _X._ _That the use of any form of birth control, contraception, or abortion is illegal._

 _XI._ _That within nine years of marriage, three magically proficient children must have been born._

 _a)_ _That couples are required to report for monthly appointments at St. Mungo's to track pregnancy until three magically proficient children are produced._

 _b)_ _That couples married prior to September 18, 2002 have seven years from September 18, 2002 to produce a total of three magically proficient children._

 _c)_ _That couples where both individuals are ineligible at the time of marriage have eight years from date of eligibility to produce three magically proficient children._

 _d)_ _That a couple can be exempted by a majority Wizengamot ruling that sufficient medical evidence shows the witch's infertility or the wizard can prove natural infertility or show spell damage._

 _e)_ _That a couple will receive any and all appropriate medical services to remedy infertility, if possible._

 _XII._ _That disobedience of any of the above articles can and will be punished with up to a three year sentence in Azkaban._

He sighed and set the paper back down on his desk, vigorously rubbing at his temples in an effort to stave off the vicious headache that was threatening. Feeling slightly guilty and with memories of being an overworked Head Boy running through his mind, Michael Clafton slipped his wand from his robes pocket and cast a quick cheering charm, feeling instantly better. Outside in the lobby interns and secretaries were still rushing about, setting desks and chairs right, restacking papers, and repairing lights.

"Eleanor!" He called and a moment later the witch's face appeared in his doorway looking flustered and anxious.

"Yes?"

"What do I have next?" Michael asked heavily.

"Nine twenty meeting with Goblin Affairs Liaison—it's nine eighteen now and you're meeting in his office on Level Four so you'd best hurry. Oh, and do remember his name is Antione Puggwigglet but the 't' is silent. He's French and gets _very_ offended when the English mispronounce it." She called after him as he set off quickly toward the lift.

"Right." He turned his head slightly to make eye contact and inclined his head in appreciation before stepping inside, past the golden gates, and pressing the gilded button.

* * *

Six o'clock found Michael ascending the steps to his welcoming London townhouse, the homey viridian shutters and door, and cream trim filling him with a sense of calm that he hadn't experienced all day. He undid the latch with a click and turned the brass handle and stepped into the small foyer. A kindly-looking woman emerged from the hallway—her dark hair hung loosely around her face in gentle curls, flour smudged her forehead and charcoal robes, and her eyeglasses rested slightly askew on her nose.

"Hi honey."

He bent downwards to meet his wife's kiss, wrapping his arms around her tightly in greeting, cloak and hat dropping, forgotten, from his hands. Minutes later they resurfaced, faces flushed and hair tussled, eagerly drawing in long breaths of air.

"Merlin," Michael breathed, peering intently into her eyes, savoring the hazel orbs' warm, playful glint.

"After six years, I would hope that you'd know my name." She said teasingly, clasping a hand to her collar in mock outrage.

"Gemma Farley," he smiled, gently resting his hands on her waist. "I don't think I could ever forget."

"Good." Gemma met his eyes, a matching grin splayed across her own lips.

They stood like that, half entwined in each other's arms, lovingly gazing into each other's eyes, in blissful peace and contentment. A wail from the kitchen shattered the moment and they withdrew.

"Damn," Gemma muttered and turned towards the doorway but stopped to say over her shoulder. "Dinner's almost ready, love, be quick."

"Be there in a second," Michael replied with a mock salute before stooping to retrieve the fallen cloak and hat and place them on their proper hooks. He couldn't help glancing back at her retreating figure and broke into a happy smile as he heard her begin to coo to their crying daughter.

Dinner was a hectic affair, the whirl of preparations spinning into the struggle of feeding a one-year-old, then quickly followed by the divide-and-conquer simultaneous cleanup and bedtime missions. It was eight when at last the couple collapsed into opposite chairs in the kitchen, the silence water upon parched ears. He slowly reached across the table until his fingers coaxingly tangled with hers; feeling the touch, Gemma looked up, curious.

"Long day?" She asked softly, as Michael rubbed small circles around her thumb.

"Hermione Granger read me the riot act."

"Oh?"

"I've never seen a witch that angry at me before—no, really! You've never been _that_ mad—she actually had magic coming off her, she was so furious." He added, catching sight of Gemma's raised eyebrow.

"The new law?"

"What else?"

"Don't you worry, it'll work itself out."

"And you?" He said, lifting his gaze to her face once more.

She let out a small, scratchy chuckle at some unknown joke and he hid his smile at her.

"Did you know the Improper Use of Magic Office considers tracing spells to be borderline dark magic?"

He let out a loud laugh of surprise at the irony of it. "What?! Really? That just so – I can't –are you serious?"

"Completely."

"I mean, did they get it at all…?"

"Not even a little." She shook her head in exasperation. "Believe me, I tried everything. I was there for a good hour talking to some utterly humorless relic about it. I must have hinted about the Trace a hundred times—and not subtly, mind you—I mean I could see Trace Moniters working! I was so close to just losing it and shouting at the twitchy old berk, but we really do need them to cooperate on this."

"What on?"

"Oh, we just found this _amazing_ Egyptian pendant that's enchanted with really ancient tracking technology and we're trying to get approval on a license to experiment and study it."

"I could—" he began.

"Oh, no you don't! We've discussed this, I will not let you pull any special favors for me. Cursebreaking hardly has me in contact with the Ministry, but if and when it does, you being Minister will not change anything for me, is that clear?" Gemma eyed him, fiercely determined.

"Crystal." He said, nodding.

"Good."

Hand in hand, they sat in the warm yellow kitchen, talking late into the night.

* * *

When Michael arrived at the Ministry the next morning, the _Daily Prophet_ declared in loud letters _Granger Gone Gaga?_ above a picture of the witch taken at that year's Victory Ball. She looked slightly dazed in the image, but, then again, that was how he always remembered her to be at those events—subdued, tense, and distant. Paying the wizard at the stand the usual four sickles, he plucked up a paper and, stepping into the lift, unfolded it to the front page.

 _Hermione Granger, the long-touted Brightest Witch of Her Age, has shied from the public eye in the years since the Second Wizarding War, writes intrepid reporter Rita Skeeter. She has insisted upon privacy, demanding extra protection from Magical Law Enforcement against her curious and eager admirers merely wishing to catch a glimpse of the hailed hero. Her recent unexplained absence, though, certainly sets her beyond the point of mere eccentric and unto-herself Gryffindor Princess. After all, Miss Granger has never been one to avoid the spotlight—she has pursued Bulgarian Seeker Victor Krum, Chosen One Harry Potter, and hero Ron Weasley in her desperate search for fame. It seems the war had a much heavier toll on Miss Granger than she has cared to reveal and has sent her into a downwards spiral: her relationship with Ron Weasley ended bitterly in May of 1999, her forecasted professional trajectory fizzled to naught, and she has become increasingly secluded from friends._

 _The announcement of new Ministry Marriage Law was the final straw for the disturbed witch. Early yesterday morning, Miss Granger stormed into Minister Clafton's office shouting and screaming in a violent rampage that destroyed the Level One lobby and traumatized several innocent Ministry employees. "I was terrified," undersecretary Emma Clemson says, "I'd always admired her [Miss Granger] but that… well, I just don't know how a person could do that. I was scared for my life—she's supposed to be the hero." Miss Granger has refused to comment. The prospect of ex-lover Ron Weasley's recent engagement was simply too much for the desperate witch, sending her into depression and insanity._

Michael exited the lift, still reading the article.

 _While the war damaged her and the Marriage Law set her over the edge, Miss Granger's violent and deranged streak has shown through long before—even since her early years at Hogwarts. Though Headmaster Albus Dumbledore overlooked many a transgression of his favorites, Miss Granger was known to have a hidden malicious side by her peers. In only her first year she cursed an unarmed Gryffindor classmate who stood in the way of her own rule-breaking. As a third year she physically assaulted another student and viciously insulted one of her Professors. The following year Miss Granger played with the heartstrings of two boys, manipulating and betraying both her close friend, Harry Potter, and Victor Krum as she sought greater fame. She led illicit activities on school grounds and stoked others into her path of wrongdoing in, deceived and attempted murder on her Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, and again cursed a fellow student who spoke out against her wicked actions, all in her fifth year._

Engrossed in the paper, he didn't look up until he neared his office and, upon doing so, found one Brightest Witch of Her Age waiting outside his door.

"Minister," she greeted him coldly, eyeing the offending newspaper in his hand.

"Miss Granger," he stammered, startled. "What a surprise."

"Is it?" She asked in a curt manner that clearly indicated she hadn't thought so. "And it's _Ms._ Granger."

"Oh, my apologies," he said, feeling very uncomfortable. "Can I help you, Ms. Granger?"

"I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday and to say that I gave you the wrong impression of myself. If you are willing to, I'd like to start over." All of this she said very professionally, without a hint of actual remorse.

"Alright then," he blinked in surprise, suddenly far more at ease. "Of course. Is there anything else I can do?"

"Yes, actually," she flashed him a small, defiant smile. "I'd like you to repeal the law."

"I'm afraid I can't do that." He said with a slight chuckle.

"No, you can. It say says so in the Lawmaking Process Procedures, Article VIII, Section Twelve, Line Fifty-one." Hermione Granger responded smartly, pulling the very page from the depths of her handbag and showing him exactly where the clause was located. He almost found her over-preparation amusing.

"What I mean, Ms. Granger, is that I am not going to repeal the law."

"Oh. Well, that's a whole other matter." She said with a bright smile, as though she had very little faith in his resolve on this. "And I'm sure we'll get around to discussing the many flaws in that plan, but for now why don't we talk about all of the things wrong in this law of yours?"

He sat at his desk as the witch listed problem after problem with the law, punctuating each by placing another stack of her research on his desk with a loud _smack_. Somehow, Hermione Granger had managed to invite herself into his office, request a cup of tea, and get him to cancel his next appointment without him even realizing.

Two hours later when the meeting was finally over, he had a two foot tall pile of paper—all of it her research—on his desk, a forty-item-long list of problems with the law, and a pounding headache. He felt just as dazed as he had the previous day and wondered if the witch always left this particular impression of shock and mild terror. Again Michael began his hearty massage of his aching temples as he contemplated prospects of her protests: he would have to read over her notes again as his attention had lapsed somewhere mid-diatribe and he would also have to get a lawyer to inspect them, just to see what legal battles the Ministry was likely to have to deal with. He sighed and slumped deeper into his seat, eyes landing on his desk. The article still lay on his desk, open and unfinished, and he began to read again only to hear a knock on his door a minute later.

It took him all day to read the article, getting a sentence in here and there between the whirlwind rush of meetings, phone calls, and P.R. work he had to do. He was walking home by the time he finished Rita Skeeter's last word.

 _This longstanding pattern of harm certainly begs the question, through what means has Ms. Granger managed to keep her history quiet for so long? And do friends Harry Potter and Ron Weasley know her true nature, or has Miss Granger deceived them as well? We can only be glad that the Minister escaped such a gruesome fate, it remains unknown, though, what havoc this volatile witch will wreak next._

With a scoff he tossed the paper into the nearest rubbish bin, enjoying the sight of Skeeter's face amidst discarded lunches and other refuse.

* * *

For weeks, the Ministry was overrun with complaints, protesters, and petitions. While he had expected and prepared for an onslaught of angry letters and public outrage, Michael had not prepared for Hermione Granger. The witch was at the forefront of the cause, organizing the outcry: she had articles, interviews, and letters printed in every major publication—not a day went by where some new piece in the _Daily Prophet_ , _Witch Weekly_ , or _The Quibbler_ didn't spark fresh outcry. By her doing, a constant hoard of protesters picketed in the Ministry Atrium, Howlers arrived daily, and letters piled so high outside his door that he couldn't enter his office. And Hermione Granger herself was in his office every morning without fail, a new agenda of questions and criticisms in hand each time. He worked overtime, rarely returning home before midnight and arriving at the Ministry again by six each morning—circles developed under his eyes, a six o'clock shadow became constant, and gray began peppering his hair. In those two months, the witch successfully got seventeen amendments passed to the law.

Then, finally, at the end of August, the uproar began to quiet. People started panicking, lost hope that Ministry would repeal the law, and worried instead about the rapidly nearing start date. By September 18, forty percent of the lawfully-required participants had married and the rest of the Wizarding World was slowly complying with the law. Michael finally managed to make it home in time to tuck his daughter into bed and to kiss his wife goodnight. Things were looking up.

Then, on September 19 he received a memo from the head of the newly-created Department of Marriage and Family Stability that was the true start of his horror story:

 _Minister Clafton,_

 _Ms. Hermione Granger has filed a complaint case against The War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act. Complaint cases are relatively rare in the last century, but have a well-established precedent and are not likely to be dismissed. So long as Ms. Granger has an approved case filed, she is not required to comply with the law. Legal office will be in touch soon with specifics._

 _Viviana Mallory_

 _Department of Marriage and Family Stability Deputy Head_

* * *

She had found an out and since then not a day went by where Hermione Granger didn't have a complaint case filed and officialized. Just minutes after the end of every hearing, word would unfailingly arrive that, once again, a new form had been approved for Wizengamot consideration, and no matter what Michael, or the Ministry, or the Wizengamot did, they could not shake Hermione Granger. She brought report after report, loophole after loophole, and precedent after precedent before the court, challenging the law at every opportunity, bringing forward every possible barrier, finding every flaw, pitting her entire being against the force of the Ministry.

Michael and the rest of the Wizarding World watched her, the Brightest Witch of Her Age, wither bit by bit, as her efforts gradually ate away at her life. He knew that during the late hours of the night, long before the sun rose, in any spare moment that the witch could find, she toiled away, researching, drafting, and reviewing. Hermione Granger grew haggard and drained—permanent circles formed below her eyes and she thinned noticeably. But as sluggish as it was, she made progress. In October the witch not only argued Harry and Ginny Potter's case but won, getting the Wizengamot to rule them exempt from the law, and additionally got amendments eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one to the law passed.

And then, in November, after five months of precariously juggling her grueling campaign with her full time post as Head of Research at Bobbin Apothecary she lost her job. _Golden Girl Gets Sacked!_ appeared emblazoned across the front page of the _Prophet_ the next day, followed by three pages of Rita Skeeter's slanderous speculation. _"Hermione Granger's downfall continues, the most recent development being her disgraced dismissal from the prestigious Bobbin Apothecary due to her falling quality of work and unreliable punctuality. To many who are familiar with Miss Granger's public and self-publicized image of the diligent bookworm, her new unemployment may come as a surprise. If one looks deeper into Miss Granger's history, though, it should not. After completing her abandoned Hogwarts education, Miss Granger quickly entered the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures as a mere middling paper-shuffler. Only four months into her new employment, Miss Granger was fired for shoddy performance, frequent tardiness, and excessive absences. The ambitious Miss Granger had made little upwards progress in the Department in that time—one of her prior coworkers commented that "everyone was kind of wondering what all the fuss was, I mean, she was pretty average"—and, struggling to succeed without the favoritism Hogwarts teachers had afforded her, she quickly lost interest and allowed her work and responsibilities to slide. The famed Gryffindor Golden Girl went to great lengths to keep her sacking quiet from public ears, even going so far as to recruit the help of her childhood acquaintance Harry Potter and ex-boyfriend Ron Weasley. Following her humiliation, the alleged—but clearly lacking—Brightest Witch of Her Age hid from the truth only resurfacing when she recently applied for a research position at Bobbin Apothecary. Perhaps the plain-faced but power-hungry Miss Granger felt hampered by the responsibilities of actual employment, or perhaps jealousy at the impending nuptials of her ex-lover Ron Weasley set her over the edge, or perhaps her self-benefitting and law-evading campaign against recent Ministry measures became too much of a strain on this entitled witch…"_

Hermione Granger was the subject of gossip in every wizarding household across England with the story plastered across the nation for a week. Every newspaper and magazine in the country—apart from _The Quibbler_ —had a following article; _Witch Weekly_ asked: _Granger Falters: Is It All Too Much?_

Jobless, Hermione Granger continued on, going head to head with the Ministry every day. In December amendments twenty-three and twenty-four passed, she argued and won another case exempting Luna Lovegood from the law, and she still saw Michael multiple times a week in meetings each time with a new problem for him to address. Over the course of the spring and summer she went to the Wizengamot, held press conferences, and staged rallies as the rest of the Wizarding World slowly complied with the law: she unfalteringly led the march even as fewer and fewer people followed. By August of 2003 every change short of abolishing the law altogether had been made, but still she filed case after case, winning fewer and fewer, each growing more desperate than the last, as though she was grasping at straws. A year and a half later she charged on alone, nevertheless. By her sheer determination, news of the Marriage Law regularly appeared in the papers and developments would dominate the headlines for several days at a time, reading _Granger Still At It_ and _Is This the End of the Marriage Law?_ But it never was.

* * *

 _January 10, 2005_

Now, Michael waited with trepidation, kneading his aching temples, as he watched the minute hand slowly inch closer and closer to 11:00 am. He was dreading this meeting more than, he was sure, any person in history had ever dreaded a meeting. Even though he wanted her gone, there was no doubt that he respected Hermione Granger and maybe even admired her a little—she was smart, wickedly so, vivacious, determined, and had a fight to be reckoned with. He pitied her too: for over two years she had fought this law tooth and nail, and now at last it was over; her work was done and she was worse for it. And he would be the one to break the news to her.

Judging by the knock at the door, she was here.

"Come in," Michael called, adjusting his collar and finding himself disappointed by the slight waver in his voice.

The door swung open revealing the fearsome witch herself, Hermione Jean Granger: Brightest Witch of Her Age. As usual she was neatly dressed, donning Muggle business attire uncommon in the Wizarding World—a slightly rumpled navy blazer and pencil skirt and a white blouse that, nevertheless, hung a little too loosely on her frame—with had her bushy locks pulled back by numerous bobby pins.

"Morning Minister, I hope you're well," she greeted him warmly, stepping inside. With a wave of his wand, the door shut behind her.

"Good morning, Ms. Granger. I'm very well, thank you." he responded and then waited patiently, after two and a half years now, already anticipating her speech. She did not disappoint.

"I have a few additional complaints for you, as well, Minister, about Public Law 58004 that I would appreciate the Wizengamot addressing." She began, having roughly deposited her bag beside her usual chair and withdrawn a thick stack of papers that she rifled through as she paced, speaking a mile a minute.

"International repercussions of the law really should be taken into deeper consideration. Investigations into possible overpopulation concerns as well as diplomatic repercussions should be conducted immediately. The reckless implementation of this law has endangered generations of future witches and wizards, I remind you, Minister. Oh, and the Ministry really should also look into claims regarding—"

"Ms. Granger," he interjected at last.

She paused, eyes widening in surprise—it was rare that anyone dared interrupt her.

Clearing his throat, Michael gestured at the chair before him, "Please have a seat, Ms. Granger."

"Thank you, Minister," she complied, slowly sitting, her eyes narrowing slightly, a trace of wariness in her voice.

"I meant to ask, Minister, is the Ministry making good progress on the newest case against this utterly heinous policy you've subjected the Wizarding public to?" Her sugary tone was laced with sarcasm and loathing. "I do _so_ look forward to meeting with the Wizengamot soon."

He gave a brief, uncomfortable smile. "I appreciate your concern, Ms. Granger, but, actually, the Wizengamot has rejected your latest case and has cancelled the—"

 _"_ _Excuse_ me! They did _what_ exactly?" She demanded sharply, her voice rising shrilly in indignation. "On _what_ grounds was my case dismissed? I know for a fact that my form was approved. I _will_ be looking into this, Minister, and, Godric help me, if I find the even the _smallest_ hint of foul play, _believe me_ I will ensure that every bastar—"

"Ms. Granger!" He cut in firmly. "If I could just finish, I would be happy to hear your _questions_ then."

Her fury, he understood, was real but also out of habit and fear. As smart as she was, she had to have known for a while now that she was on her last legs—this may have been the last case she had in her even if the Wizengamot ruling had never happened. Across from him, the furious witch continued to seethe, but said nothing, which he took as permission to continue.

"The Wizengamot dismissed case 248 against Law 58004 as invalid because Law 58004 is no longer up for contention—"

"That's illegal!" She broke in, enraged. "You can't do that! The Ministry is legally required to receive, process, and address all personal grievances about a law until that law is declared uncontestable by a majority vote in a scheduled hearing. You can't—"

"Law 58004 _was_ declared uncontestable, Ms. Granger, at a hearing held Saturday evening," he pressed on, ignoring her interruption. "Most unfortunately your case had not yet been received by the Wizengamot at the time, so the proceedings were not affected and your case has been dismissed."

"Bollocks!" She snarled ferociously, raising her head to direct her withering glower at him. "You know bloody well that they scheduled that hearing just to avoid having to deal with my complaint."

He swallowed, resolute. Yes, he knew and she knew that was exactly what had happened but, at this point, his hands were tied and he just wanted to be done with as little fuss as possible.

"I doubt any of that would hold up in court, so unless you'd care to challenge the hearing's legality, the ruling still stands." He paused, and when she said nothing, went on. "Now, as I'm sure you know, Ms. Granger, the new status of Law 58004 means that complaint cases can no longer be brought against it and only criminal or civil suits will be heard by the Wizengamot."

"Oh, I know, _Minister,"_ she snapped irritably. "I know damn well the proceedings of this farce of a government. In fact, I'd bet quite a lot of money that I know the Ministry's legal regulations far better than you and that entire pack of imbeciles combined, which may explain why the Ministry does such a pathetic job at following them, with all due respect _Minister."_

"Ms. Granger," he took a calming breath, trying to control his temper. "I must tell you that the Wizengamot also held a second case hearing about how you, given your – ah, your special circumstances – how you will be required to comply with the law and they reached a verdict on your case. They—"

"What type of immoral, unscrupulous, cowardly court votes on a case without even informing the defendant? And what Ministry and Minister, Mr. Clafton, allows such blatant corruption from the country's supposed _justice_ system?" Hermione Granger spat, teeth bared.

He inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the throbbing vein on his forehead, and continued on in a tone of repressed frustration.

"The verdict of the Wizengamot," he said, concentrating intently on the notes before him. "Allowed you seventy-two hours from the decision to comply with articles one through four of the marriage law, since you are so far past the set deadline. You're familiar with the other requirements so I won't waste your time going over them, but I have the specifics of your situation to give you in a moment. But for now, let's see, you have a meeting tomorrow morning at eight thirty to go over all the paperwork in the Department of Marriage and Family Stability room four hundred and twelve and—what else?—ah, the bonding ceremony is tomorrow evening at nine o'clock in the same place. You have until eleven Tuesday evening which, from right now, gives you," he checked his watch, "thirty-five hours and, uh, twenty-four minutes remaining."

Looking up from his notes at last, he paused, taken aback as he caught sight of Hermione Granger's face: her livid expression had faded, transforming into one of unfiltered horror and fear; tears welled in her eyes, and her lower lip trembled. Her cheeks had drained of color until she was an ashen, ghostly white, her posture had collapsed, her hair had wilted, and her clothes suddenly seemed to wrinkle, revealing the toll the last two years had taken.

Her next words came out in a shaky crestfallen whisper—the likes of which he never imagined could emanate from Hermione Granger. "W – who?"

"I have your letter here," he started to say, sliding the envelope towards her, hoping beyond hope that he wouldn't have to—

 _"_ _Who?"_ Hermione Granger demanded again, stronger this time despite the hitch in her voice.

But alas.

"Y – you h – have known me for over two years and have met with me at l – least once a week for all of that. It was _you_ w – who signed this disgrace into law and, and I – I won't let you to h – hide from it now! You b – better bloody well look me in the eyes and tell me e – exactly how you're destroying my life!"

And Michael knew that she was right. He had to, he owed that much to her at the very least.

"You have been matched with Draco Lucius Malfoy." He said flatly and winced at how cold the words sounded, hating himself for it as he said it.

Hermione Granger froze, a small whimper involuntarily escaping her lips: panic setting in further, her eyes glazing over as her world crumbled to pieces and she was left powerless to do anything.

Minutes passed as they sat in silence, a heavy weight settling on both their shoulders as she struggled to regain herself.

"And if I don't?" She asked at last, quiet and resigned.

"Azkaban," he murmured regretfully. "I'm sorry."

She nodded and sat for another minute before she rose and gathered her bag, swiping at the tears in her eyes and waving off his sympathies. "I don't suppose the Wizengamot has finally taken my suggestion to heart and suddenly gotten rid of the Dementors?"

"No, I don't believe they have." He said with a small, wry smile, rising to shake her hand. "I wish you well, Ms. Granger, and I trust this won't be the last I see of you."

"No, most certainly not." With one firm shake, Hermione Granger released his hand and departed.

The door closed after her and he was left with a deep feeling of relief and a lingering sense of pity. Letting out a heavy sigh he loosened his collar, poured himself a glass of Ogden's Best, and, raising it to his lips, took a swig. Merlin, after two years of this hell, he needed it.


	2. The Full Fury of the Wizengamot

The Full Fury of the Wizengamot Unleashed

* * *

May 3, 2016 - Short Note (though maybe a bit longer this time): First, thank you all for taking the time to read WTJIU (what a positively catchy acronym!) and thank you for your patience (I'll come back to that in a moment). Second, I've gone back and corrected several errors in Chapter One as well as rephrasing and adding a few sentences to smoothen it out. Not to worry though, you have not missed any crucial details or plot changes. That said, if you are interested please take a few minutes to reread Chapter One and if you are not interested, gladly proceed onwards. Third, the long delay in updates has been because I am trying to have a few chapters ahead written and ready for editing so that future chapters can come more regularly. (Also, Chapter Two was a devil to write: fluff is hard folks!) Still, the regular updates are _not_ set in stone, they are merely a vague plan/hope so updates may come sporadically after infuriating periods of silence. (What a way to draw in a readership, I know, but Chapter Three should be up in the near-ish future.) Fourth, I shall again say that I am searching oh-so-optimistically for a beta reader. Where art thou editing soulmate? Fifth, I eagerly look forward to feedback and hope that you would take a minute to share your thoughts and/or constructive criticism. Finally, (I know, I know; it's been a long spiel, I'm sorry.) I do solemnly swear that I am not the dazzling J. K. Rowling. Please enjoy!

* * *

 _January 10, 2005_

Buffeted in by the rain Harry entered the shop, the January wind slamming the door shut after him. As Harry stomped the water off, the chime above the door rung his arrival. At the tinkle of the bell, a blonde head shot up from behind the counter.

"Hullo, Verity."

"Backroom. Be there in a second." Came the hurried answer.

And she dove back into the sales records with a rising cloud of dust. Harry, not all surprised by her abrupt greeting, continued on past the cages of pink and purple pygmy puffs, the racks of illness-inducing sweets, and the many blaring advertisements. Over the years, the shop had expanded its stock—now Puking Pastilles came in fifty-one varieties of vomit for the buyer's convenience—but, in a rare spot of order amid the chaos, every original product was framed at the top of the walls, so that the products formed a ring around the entire room. They were a shot of nostalgia, a reminder of Fred, every time he saw them. Almost eight years after first setting foot inside and even though Harry ate lunch there most days, it never became any less aggressively overwhelming. At the rear of the shop, he pulled back the velvet plum-colored curtain.

Shelves bulging with multicolored parchment lined the back room of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the multitude of paper filling the room with the dusty smell of old books. A sweet pinkish-purple haze rising from a dozen hissing, steaming, and bubbling cauldrons, filled the room. Atop worktables covered in pages and pages of miniscule notes sat all manner of semi-constructed mechanisms, shrieking curios, shuddering tins, and unidentifiable brews. Hazards in the form of fallen parts and roving creations littered the floor; quills threatened to take his eye out as they darted about through the air, rushing to copy sales figures onto the many charts posted that occupied the little remaining wall space.

Laden with Chinese take-out, Harry made his way cautiously into the room, barely avoiding a stray and—judging by its weak waddle—defective Decoy Detonator, dodging a frilly crimson quill dripping tangerine ink as it whizzed by, and nearly colliding with a boiling cauldron of some unknown sludge-like liquid. In the back corner of the workroom Ron and George, both clad in violent magenta robes, were bent over a ledger of some sort.

"Oi! Any help here, you ungrateful blighters?"

The two men turned.

"Oh, listen to him whine, like he's a wannabe martyr or something." George ribbed, grinning roguishly, only a glimmer of resigned disappointment lingering in his eyes.

Even six and half years later the air still hung heavy, suddenly and deeply void, every time the twin's jest went unanswered. A shadow passed over all three men's faces as Fred's voice practically echoed throughout the room with the unsaid words.

 _"_ _You know, the way he acts, you'd think he was some type of bigshot."_

 _Which would have been George's cue to add sarcastically, "Yeah, who's he? The Chosen One?"_

But Harry and the rest of the Weasleys had long-since realized the necessity of ignoring the painful silence so, without missing a beat, Harry snorted appreciatively. "Right. It's not like I'm bringing you lunch."

"Yeah, what the hell mate? Don't make the man angry—he's got our food." Ron cuffed George on the shoulder good naturedly.

"Alright, alright." George surrendered.

"But actually, some help would be nice." Harry confessed, gesturing to the encumbering bags.

"Wizards my arse." A whoosh of air seemed to pass by and it took him a second to register the vivid streak as Verity's blonde bob and magenta employee robes. "Are you lot honestly not able to use your wands?"

With a wave of hers, she had magicked the many takeout boxes from their bags and onto an empty work desk where they dispersed themselves, lids readily popping open. Harry's mouth began to water and Ron's stomach voiced his sentiments with an ominous growl.

They quickly dug in, piling paper plates with spring rolls and chow mein and rice and scarfing down the food with little conversation. Warmth and contentment spread outwards from Harry's stomach. He ate eagerly was nearly finished with his first plate, though he was far from having the zeal of Ron, who was on a second plate already, or the speed of Verity, who was halfway through her third. George belched loudly, one arm reaching out for the rice when Angelina appeared in the doorway, frustration written in clear lines across her brow. Harry paused in chewing his current mouthful to watch the scene for a second. George immediately stood, his food abandoned, and followed her out of the backroom.

The tension passed and Harry resumed chewing, though his and the others' pace had slowed. For a few minutes loud whispers from the main room occasionally floated unintelligibly back towards where Harry and Ron and Verity sat, but then the conversation seemed to finally quiet and they both reentered, Angelina looking markedly happier and George looking slightly more tired.

"Roxy's being a ridiculously fussy eater." She said by way of answer, settling down on a stool and heaping a plate with take out.

Verity patted Angelina's knee in solidarity. Harry nodded and tried to smile, in what he hoped was an understanding way, around his full mouth of food. On catching sight of Ron, who presumably had tried to do the same and failed—little strands of noodles stuck out this way and that from between his teeth—Harry quickly shut his own lips. Angelina was not looking though, she had paused in serving her food, as George wrapped an arm around her shoulders and whispered something in her ear that made her blush and laugh loudly. Verity, who had seen, stifled her snort at Harry in an effort to preserve the Angelina's momentary bubble of peace.

As Angelina set her arm around George for support an leant close to his head with a devilish smile that suggested whatever she was saying was no less mischievous, Harry turned his attention away from the couple.

"So how's Shawna?"

Verity's head swung round to Harry from her happy spectating, her chopsticks stopping halfway to her mouth as her blue eyes sparkled with fresh delight and her head began to bob with excitement. "Excellent! She just adores working with the kids—fifteen of them in her class this year."

Shawna, Verity's wife, was a muggle and a primary schoolteacher who, impressively, managed to match Verity in enthusiasm and energy. The two women were a lively pair, always with a new hobby, trip, or some surprising endeavor in the works. Two summers before, they culminated a six-month acrobatics spree by joining the circus and had spent the summer holiday as traveling performers. Last July they hitchhiked across Holland and then, in August, worked as tulip pickers, returning to England just as school was beginning again, both fluent in Dutch.

"And we're thinking of going abroad over the summer while school's out. Probably hiking in the Alps." Continued Verity.

"That's fantastic!" Harry exclaimed.

"Yeah, we'd really like to go, but we're not quite sure what we'd do with Irving while we're away."

"Irving."

Verity and Shawna had acquired a parrot, Harry learned, named Captain Irving Howard M. Wallace from a close seafaring friend of Shawna's. For the next half hour Verity regaled him with tales of Captain Irving Howard M. Wallace who could not understand the concept of windows, and by some stroke of luck Harry carefully avoided offering to pet sit the bird. At last, around one, George, Angelina, Verity had been hugged goodbye and Ron had been clapped on the back, Harry left Diagon Alley for the Ministry.

* * *

"—most unfortunate really… the poor girl…" Harry caught snatches of the conversation before the Wizengamot witch paused, spotting him over her colleague's shoulder.

"Oh, Mr. Potter, I am so glad to run into you now." She called, waving warmly at him to come over.

For the life of him Harry couldn't remember ever having laid eyes on the woman before, but nevertheless he smiled amiably and walked to join the pair.

"I was just telling Mr. Spannar here about the horrible dealings over the weekend—nasty affair through and through. Had to be done though, after all, the law is the law. I do hope Ms. Granger doesn't hold it against me, just doing my job." She shrugged as to relieve herself of blame. "If you see her dear, do let her know I'm sorry. I had no idea who they would pair her with—a shame really! If I had known… Well, who's to know? Maybe it's for the best after all."

"Sorry, what?" Harry asked, entirely lost.

"Oh, hadn't you heard?" The witch looked taken aback and then distinctly uncomfortable as a guilty blush rose in her cheeks. "The Wizengamot ruled on Saturday night that Ms. Granger is legally required to marry tomorrow evening."

Harry didn't stop to think or even excuse himself. As fast as he could he bolted down the hallway and up the stairs and through corridor after corridor and past flight after flight—not even bothering with the lifts—until he reached the Minister's office.

"Don't—" the secretary screeched, standing.

Harry cast her the most withering glare he could and stormed inside flinging open the door.

"How could you let this happen? To her of all people? She doesn't deserve this!" He bellowed. He felt relief as his panic was released as rage.

"Good day, Mr. Potter." Michael Clafton said and nudged his clock closer to the center of his desk.

"Forgive me _Minister,_ but I'm having an awfully hard time seeing what's so _bloody_ good about it." Harry snapped. A rush of confusion swirled inside his head making it very difficult to think.

"Oh—" Clafton began, in an attempt to placate, but was interrupted.

"How did this happen?" Harry demanded, spitting out the only clear question he could form.

"The Wizengamot voted and it's not my place—"

"Like hell it's not!" Harry spat.

Clafton surreptitiously shut the door with a flick of his wand.

"If you'd wanted to you could have stopped them and you know it." Harry continued in an angry growl. "She's been through enough for Christ's sake—she _does not_ need this too! I don't care if _Merlin_ fucking voted on it or if she was doomed from the minute you signed the damned law, _you_ could have made this easier on her now. _You_ could have helped and the truth is that you didn't care enough!"

"Ms. Granger has made my life very difficult for quite a while now, Mr. Potter. While she may be an admirable adversary, I don't feel much obliged to do her any favors."

 _"_ _Favor? Favor!_ It's not some bloody _favor!_ It's the law that you _swore_ to uphold when you took office—sorry day that it was."

"I am working very hard to ensure that the wellbeing of the entire countr—"

"Well clearly not hard enough if the laws you pass are so terrible that you have to resort to blackmail to enforce them!" Harry thundered.

"If you are under the impression that illegal activity at the hands of either the Wizengamot or myself has occurred, you would be woefully mistaken. And may I remind you, Potter, that Ms. Granger herself has based her work for the last two years on legal fine print."

"Selectively obeying the law won't end well for you, Minister." At this point Harry shoved back his sleeve and bared the back of his hand where _I must not tell lies_ still appeared in faint shining lines of puckered scars. It had been a fine day when Dolores Umbridge was finally shipped of into the North Sea.

Clafton inspected it cooly. "Are you threatening me, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, I am." Harry leveled a cold furious glare at the man seated across from him.

"I have no fears of Azkaban."

"And I doubt Dolores Umbridge did either as she tortured children."

Clafton fixed him with an expressionless stare and said in a tightly controlled voice. "Ms. Granger has a loyal friend in you, Mr. Potter. However, I expect a level of professionalism from my employees so, in the future, leave the personal matters outside the office. Now, if you would kindly see yourself out."

Harry stormed out of Clafton's office not bothering to shut the door behind him. He was much too furious to care that he was attracting shocked and curious stares as he passed. It was all he could do to summon enough restraint to make it inside his office and enough presence of mind to cast a quick _Muffliato_ before the roar of frustration that had been steadily building in his chest exploded. Unbridled fury and overwhelming helplessness exited the hollow of his stomach in one thundering reverberation that left his throat raw and aching. He sat breathing heavily for a several minutes before he emerged, lifting the spell and heading to Kingsley's office at the end of the hallway. From the way the other Aurors openly peered at him, Harry surmised that, in his anger, he hadn't actually executed the silencing charm successfully.

He only had to knock once before the door opened, Kingsley holding it as he entered then closing it behind him.

"Harry," Kingsley rumbled, his low, ever-placid baritone soothing some of Harry's anger. "What can I do for you today?"

"I need off." Harry tried his best to keep his voice polite and cordial, though he couldn't stifle his impatience and frustration entirely.

"Oh," His deep voice giving no hint of surprise, Kingsley raised an eyebrow ever-so-slightly. "And for how long?"

"Just today." Harry struggled to remain patient as every inch of his body itched to move, to get to Hermione as quick as he could. His brain felt murky and distracted. As an afterthought he added, "It's a personal emergency."

"Of course." Kingsley inclined his head. "You are free to go."

"Thank you." All but breathlessly, Harry gave his thanks and rushed out.

On the way out he wondered if Kingsley hadn't already known about Hermione. He retrieved his coat from his office and flung it over his shoulders as he hurried to the lift. The man standing beside Harry in the lift threw him increasingly nasty glares, tsking angrily at each anxious tap of Harry's foot, until the golden gates at last opened into the Atrium and the man took his speedy leave. Harry followed him out, briskly heading for the newly-installed escalators that had replaced Ministry entry and exit via toilet.

It was only a meager trickle of wizards that ascended up the magically-moving stairs to the muggle tube stop. Single mindedly focused on Hermione, he mindlessly filed and pushed his way through the crowds of London lunch-goers milling about until he surfaced into cool January drizzle and reached a sufficiently-secluded alley where he stopped to patronus Ginny.

He watched the stag canter off, disappearing between buildings and streets, before he turned on the spot and apparated.

* * *

Ginny was mid-dive, a smile tugging at her lips as she hurtled downwards in a tight spiral, winds whirling and whipping at her, her robes flapping loudly in the current. She clutched the quaffle tightly to her chest, adrenalin coursing through her veins as she evaded chasers and bludgers, dodging expertly. The hoop was fast approaching, eighty feet away—no, seventy…only fifty to go—and she was eyeing the keeper.

"WEASLEY!" Came the Holyhead Harpies Captain, Katie Bell's bellow.

Ginny pulled backwards on her broom handle, halting with such sudden force that she summersaulted twice before righting herself and drawing to a stop. Hovering in midair, she looked up to see a silvery stag bounding towards her in a loping canter, leaving a shimmering trail of mist behind as it gracefully darted skywards. Fear swelled in Ginny's chest, constricting her throat, paralyzing her. All at once, her breath caught, her hands went clammy, and her heart started beating frantically. Around the pitch, the Harpies had frozen in midflight, their eyes glued to the patronus.

"Gin," Harry's voice came then, echoing, out of the ethereal beast. "Erm – oh, damn! Sorry –everyone's safe, didn't mean to scare you." The deer said in a rush then paused, taking a sheepish breath, and Ginny let out a long sigh of relief mixed with a slight laugh.

"Er – sorry, I didn't really think, my bad. Oh, and, uh, sorry for interrupting your practice—it's just – it's just about Hermione. I'm going over to hers now, but you should get here as quick as you can. I would have told you at a better time, but I only just heard the news and I'm worried that she'll—well, it's bad and just with how she's been lately, you know…" Harry faded out softly, his voice laced with worry. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Anyway, sorry for interrupting your practice, Gin. I love you, see you soon."

The stag vanished, drifting away with the breezes, the last echo of Harry's voice carried away by the wind, and Ginny was left bewildered and concerned.

"Okay Harpies, back at it now!" Katie thundered and practice resumed in a rush of blurred green and gold streaks.

* * *

With a pop, Harry landed somewhat shakily on slick pavement beside a dumpster that conveniently shielded him from muggle passersby's sight. Surreptitiously Harry, turned onto the London block and proceeded through the quiet neighborhood towards Hermione's building. Water clung to his face and hair forming a cold stream that ran down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his already-damp clothes.

Had it already been, Harry thought as he walked, had it already been two weeks since he'd last seen Hermione? He supposed it must have been. She had been at the Burrow for Christmas with everyone and then they'd—he, Ginny, Ron, and her—gone out for lunch on Boxing Day, but Hermione hadn't come to 12 Grimmauld Place for New Year's, begging work and promising that they'd catch lunch sometime soon. Soon had been last Thursday but Harry, Ginny, and George—who'd spur of the moment decided to join them—had waited forty-five minutes and Hermione never showed. It had been more disappointing than surprising; Hermione had been more and more distant of late and more subdued each time he did see her.

He had reached her building and now stood in the narrow stairwell, dripping onto the old, scuffed, black tile. Harry checked that no Muggles were around, then drew his wand from his robes and spelled himself dry and warm, with another flick the puddle was gone. Stowing his wand safely away again, Harry continued up the winding flights to the fourth floor.

"Hermione?" He called, unlocking the door to apartment 28B and entering Hermione's flat. "Hermione, are you there?"

No answer came, but he could hear sniffling and a number of muffled sobs so, closing the door behind him and hanging his cloak up, Harry made his way through Hermione's apartment. Past her paper-filled living room to her neatly organized kitchen, tidy but for a few plates and dishes in the sink. Dim afternoon light came in through the open blinds, deadening the pale tones, reflecting off the muggle cooking appliances, and casting the dreary sky across the chipped white tile floor where Hermione sat against the refrigerator. She looked a mess: eyes bloodshot and skin blotchy from crying, blankets and a pile of used tissues surrounding her, with an open bottle of Pinot Grigio and half-full glass of wine sitting beside her. Hermione hiccoughed and sniffled quietly.

"Hermione," Harry moved forward and crouched down next to her.

"It's over Harry," Hermione whispered brokenly as the he wrapped her in a hug. "It's finally over. I'm done for. I don't know what to do."

"We'll figure it out." Harry tried to reassure her.

He shifted so they sat side by side, both leaning against the refrigerator doors. He didn't know what to do. There really wasn't anything to say now.

"I have to get married." Hermione spoke finally, monotone.

"I know," he said regretfully.

"Saturday afternoon the Wizengamot scheduled two hearings for that night when they knew I'd be at home and wouldn't be able to stop them. They – they ruled the law uncontestable." There was an undeniable tremor in her voice and out of the corner of his eye Harry could see her chin wobbling.

"I heard—some Wizengamot twit let it slip to me." Harry nodded, putting an arm around her shoulders.

"I'm just so furious at them! My form had already been approved for God's sake!" Hermione fumed, still teary. "And they knew that!"

"How'd they get out of it then? I thought that as long as you have a case approved, they couldn't—"

"No, they can't." She confirmed.

"Then, how—"

"Some idiot in the DMFS didn't send the owl to notify the Wizengamot before going home. And, since they _technically_ didn't know, the Wizengamot isn't legally bound to recognize my case." Hermione said bitterly.

"I'm sorry, Mione." Harry sympathized and softly laid his hand over hers in comfort.

Hermione only barely nodded, swallowing thickly. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, hands interconnected in companionship.

"They voted on my case without even notifying me that I had a case. They created a case for me and then they voted on it two hours later. I was asleep, I – I didn't even know. I didn't even know." Hermione croaked at last, heartbroken

"Wha – what did they say?" Harry asked, afraid of the answer.

"They gave me seventy two hours from the ruling to get married." Tears pooled in Hermione's eyes. "I – I have until eleven tomorrow night to get married to – to marry M – Malfoy." Hermione finished, breaking down into a fresh wave of sobs.

Again Harry found himself furiously cursing the Ministry as he drew her into his embrace. Hermione had been through so much already, had done so much for them—for the entire Wizarding World. She didn't deserve any of this—she was so much better than every one of those Wizengamot bastards. They should be begging for her forgiveness after everything they'd put her through. They should be worshiping her like the saint she practically was. But there was nothing Harry could do; he knew that. If Hermione hadn't managed to stop the law in two and a half years, then no one else stood a chance.

Even the Chosen One.

* * *

Two hours later Harry heard the latch of the front door opening and ducked out of the kitchen as Ginny stepped inside the apartment, placing her bag by the coatrack. He was behind her in five steps, gently helping her out of her cloak and hanging it appropriately.

"Wha—" she began at once, concern flickering in her eyes.

"Wizengamot snuck out of hearing her case. All under the books but won't win if she presses charges. She has to get married tomorrow night to – to _Malfoy._ " Harry answered in a rush, only hesitating before spitting out her fiancé's name.

 _"_ _Fuck."_

"Fuck indeed."

"Is she…" Ginny half asked, eyes drifting towards the kitchen.

"Yeah," Harry paused, forehead creasing in worry. "She's a mess, Gin. Really bad."

Ginny nodded and anxiety that matched his own flitted briefly across her face.

Harry had been only a step behind her, but the moment the kitchen came into view Ginny was flinging herself towards Hermione.

"Oh, honey," Ginny whispered, bending and enveloping Hermione in a tight embrace.

From the doorway, Harry watched quietly as they clung together for a minute before Ginny stood up and began bustling, in a very Molly-like fashion, around Hermione's kitchen, putting on a pot of tea, raiding the cabinets for all the junk food the older witch possessed, and laying the array out on the table beside the unopened envelope. When she was done, Ginny sat and, still eerily reminiscent of her mother, gestured for Harry and Hermione to take the other chairs. Harry slipped down beside Ginny. Slowly Hermione pushed herself up from the floor and dully took the seat across from them, idly fiddling with a cracker.

For the next twenty minutes Ginny pushed food toward Hermione and Harry sat in silence as his wife did a wonderful impression of his mother-in-law. Anger still swelled in his chest and he knew that his clenched fists were white, but Ginny's gentle hand on his knee helped ease the feeling and gradually color and circulation returned to his fingers.

After a little while, Hermione's intoxication turned to nausea and she fled to the toilet, closely followed by Ginny, leaving Harry alone in Hermione's kitchen. According to the microwave clock, it was nearly five which meant he was supposed have picked James up from Molly and Arthur an hour ago.

"Gin?" Harry called, slightly panicked, as she rounded the corner.

He swallowed, words faltering in his mouth. "Uh… um, James?"

"Oh, right." She clapped a hand to her forehead and gave a little half laugh. "Some mother I am."

"Hey, don't say that, it was my—"

Rolling her eyes, she ignored his admonishing. "Message Ron and see if he can get James on his way home."

Harry nodded and sent his patronus to Ron who was most likely closing the joke shop at this moment.

* * *

Seven minutes later, there was a sharp knock at the door and Ginny opened it to find a breathless Ron standing there. Before she could so much as greet him, Ron curtly passed by her, looking incensed, and barged down the hall towards Harry who stood halfway out of the kitchen. Ginny's astonished eyes connected with his for a second before Ron was right in front of him, a little too close for comfort.

"How long have you been here?" Ron demanded lowly.

"Two." Harry responded cautiously.

"Four hours?" Ron exclaimed in a hushed whisper that steadily grew louder. "Four hours! What the fuck, Harry? How could you? Hell, you let Gin know before me!"

Ron rubbed his forehead roughly in dismay. Back at the door, George and James had just arrived and were being shepherded by Ginny into Hermione's living room, away from the disagreement.

"I could have—" Ron's voice cracked. "I – I would have been here for her, Harry. I came the moment I heard. You know I did. How could you not tell me?"

"Look, mate—"

"You don't trust me with her." Ron held up his hand for silence. "No, Harry. Hear me out. You _don't_. Ever since we broke up and then with all the shite she went through after, you look at me like I've let her down or something. I never wanted any of that to happen to her and I've been here for her—not like you and Ginny have been, I know—but I've always been here if she ever needed it and I don't know what else you expect. The three of us, we're best friends, Harry. She's like my sister, too." Ron choked and had to stop for a moment. "I'm the first person you should have told. We've always done things together and supported each other—we wouldn't have survived three weeks without her, dammit! You should have told me."

"You're right, mate. I didn't realize…" Harry stopped to gather the words. "Ron, I'm sorry. I get that none of it was you fault—or I know that I should get it, but somehow I just kinda kept thinking that, well, none of it would have happened if you two hadn't broken up. Which it rubbish—I know—since it was mutual and… yeah, I'm just sorry. I'm a bastard, aren't I?" Harry finally looked up to meet Ron's eyes.

"Naw, well…" Ron shrugged. "I actually don't know though, do I?"

Harry laughed. "Arse."

* * *

Harry nursed a beer and watched the rowdy scene around him, the greasy leather of the bar seat creaked as he shifted. The single pub in Ottery St. Catchpole wasn't large, fifteen tables and five booths filled the room, along one wall a grizzled man of approximately sixty manned the six barstools, slinging drinks across the polished counter. Hermione, dragged by George and Ginny, was drunkenly dancing and belting out various Wizarding songs; she was joined by Ron and his wife Emma, Angelina, Lee, Alicia, Charlie, Verity, and Shawna. Bill had stopped by briefly earlier to offer his and Fleur's sympathies, as had Neville, Percy had popped in saying that Audrey would come later on, and Katie and Oliver had stayed for a couple drinks before they'd had to leave too.

As the chorus neared, Lee and George hoisted Hermione onto a table before climbing on themselves. With faces more than a little red-flushed, they waved their arms enthusiastically and swayed dangerously in time to the group's rusty croaking.

 _"_ _Beat back those Bludgers, boys, and chuck that Quaffle here!"_

The others had by now gathered in a ring around the base of the table and were merrily swinging their fists and drinks into the air.

 _"_ _No team can ever best the best of Puddlemere!"_

Beer and whiskey sloshed onto the floor in great waves.

 _"_ _You'll catch that Golden Snitch with the easiest of ease!"_

Harry wondered what the handful of muggle patrons must be thinking of the strange group. There's already been some rather odd looks for the incredibly off-key rendition of Hoggy Warty Hogwarts. Which the drunken group of Weasleys and friends had not seemed to care about or even really notice, going on as loudly as before.

 _"_ _Grab your Beater's bat and in no time flat,"_ George and Lee wavered shrilly upon the note, drawing laughter from the surrounding crowd.

 _"_ _Prove the game is yours to seize!"_ They finished as if it was the finale, before continuing on with the second and third verses.

Harry laughed, catching Ginny's eye from across the room and she grinned brightly at him.

George had suggested the night out and Hermione, surprisingly, had agreed and in no time, the whole Weasley tribe had assembled. Now, children were dispersed for the evening across the various homes of family and friends and the dozen or so of them were making complete fools of themselves while very nearly risking the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Thank Merlin that the muggle patrons assumed it was just the alcohol talking.

The door opened to the pub, letting in a blast of cold night air and one Audrey Weasley. Briefly Harry could see outside—stars were bright pinpricks in the darkness and the light from inside spilled out onto the walk in a long beam—but then the heavy door swung shut again as Audrey stepped forward.

Harry really rather liked Audrey Weasley. He especially liked that she was not nearly as dull as her husband could be. Granted, Percy had come a long way in the years since the war, but he could still—and did—rattle on about cauldron bottoms for quite a while to those who couldn't be more uninterested in the differences between pewter and brass. Her timely interruptions were considered a godsend among the Weasleys. Many a time Harry had thanked the heavens that it was Audrey, and not some stuffy Ministry bat, that Percy had settled down with. She did him good, her vivacity and eagerness bringing a needed warmth to the man. Like Percy she was ambitious, sensible, and smart but, unlike the third-eldest Weasley, she accompanied her practicality with modesty and a wonderfully wry sense of humor.

"So how is she?" Audrey settled on the bar stool beside Harry.

"Honestly?" Harry sighed, tiredly rubbing his eyes. "This is destroying her."

"If there's anything I can do or anything she needs at all, let me know." Audrey placed a hand consolingly on his. "You and Ginny have been a rock for her over the past few years and I know that you think you've just been there for your friend, but you guys have been amazing. It can't have been easy and now with having James—well, just let me know."

"Actually," Harry said. "There is one thing I can think of."

He went on to explain what he had gleaned from Hermione that afternoon, finally getting to the unopened envelope on Hermione's kitchen table. Earlier Hermione had not been in an emotionally stable enough state as to process it and Harry doubted that, upon returning home tonight, she would even be conscious enough to read. Neither he nor Ginny had the legal background to make sense of the envelope's contents but Audrey, as a Wizarding attorney, did. And would she be willing to walk them through it?

"Oh, of course. I just need to grab a few files from home, but I can be meet you both in an hour."

Audrey departed and Harry was left with the task of herding his sloshed friends home and sobering up his wife.

* * *

They'd set up shop in Hermione's living room between the towering piles of research and boxes of Ministry records. Returning to the living room with cups of tea in hand, or rather levitated in air, Harry saw that Ginny was now seated across from Audrey, having finished getting a very drunk Hermione safely into bed. At the moment, Hermione's envelope was open on the coffee table beside a copy of the law and the thickest book Harry had ever laid eyes on— _Ministry Law and Legal Proceedings_ —and Audrey sat cross-legged on the floor sifting through the pages.

"Here," Harry set one mug down next to Audrey and handed another to Ginny before settling down on the carpet as well and lacing his hand with hers. Ginny sipped the scalding earl grey appreciatively.

"Agrippa," Audrey murmured, her eyes scanning the page. "This is bad."

"What is it?" Ginny asked nervously, clutching Harry's hand tightly.

Audrey looked up from the stacks of legal jargon to meet Harry and Ginny's expectant eyes. "I hadn't realized – I didn't think she'd pissed them off this much but, Merlin. I mean, they're diverging from precedent and altering the law by claiming some noncompliance and critical situation bullshit. This – they're really pulling out all the stops to screw her over on this."

"They can do that?" He asked, aghast.

"Legally?" Audrey returned, looking sagely cynical—a look she had quite well mastered. "No. But who can stop them?"

Ginny clutched his hand even tighter. "What's being altered?"

Audrey rifled through papers for a moment before extracting the letter and placing it before her.

Harry and Ginny craned to see.

"No, nevermind. You don't need to see, just understand what I'm saying here, alright?"

They retracted their necks.

"So, if you've read the law itself," Harry and Ginny both nodded that they had. "You probably only saw the original copy of the law."

"Is much different now?" Ginny asked.

"Somewhat—Hermione got twenty-five amendments passed to the law, but you don't need to know about that now. I'll just go through Hermione's letter with you, that's all she has to worry about for tomorrow, anyway, and it's the only thing that she hasn't already spent days pouring over."

"Right, so this first bit," Audrey waved her quill at the top few lines. "Pretty much just says what we already know: Hermione is eligible, has not met the appropriate deadline, and has abeen notified and matched."

Audrey drifte d for a moment in thought. "I guess it's technically possible—there are legal opportunities at least—that she could be rematched, but it's so highly unlikely that there's really no way the Wizengamot would agree to reassign her match after everything they've had to fight with her on."

The tangent ended and she went on. "The next part here says that couples have to meet with a DMFS—that's the Department of Marriage and Family Stability—representative to complete paperwork before the wedding and with an officiator to be bonded. All of that's in line with the law by the way, the next requirement isn't, though. By law couples have to consummate within seventy-six hours, but—for some reason—the Wizengamot shortened that to seventy-two hours as part of their ruling on Hermione's case."

"What?" Harry rasped out, choking in surprise. "They can do that?"

"Yeah." Audrey grimaced sardonically.

"But – but how?" Harry stuttered.

"They run the highest court in the country, nobody's looking over their shoulders, and they have the power to squash anybody who tries. They can do anything they bloody want. Hermione's their an example for the next person who tries."

"Right… so right." He murmured, still dazed.

"Then the letter is just reminding Hermione that couples are also expected to live together and sleep in the same bed. As a side note here, the _law_ only says 'expected' not 'must' so this doesn't, in the actual law, mean anything, however in the specific requirements for Hermione's case, it's been changed to 'must' so no flexibility there which is really just the Wizengamot tightening restrictions for her again. Anyway, back on track, then it talks about the providing partner and—"

"Sorry, the what?" Ginny asked.

"The providing partner," Audrey explained. "Is essentially who the couple is going to designate as the breadwinner, meaning that the law requires the couple to live in the providing partner's residence. The Ministry assigns this, but the couple can ask to have the providing partner changed as long as the providing partner must meet Ministry requirements. And no," Audrey preempted Harry's next question. "Hermione doesn't qualify as a providing partner."

"Alright, what bullshit is next?" Ginny asked heavily, resting a soothing hand on top of Harry's own.

"It condescendingly reminds her that divorce is illegal except in instances of abuse. Conception is typically required to occur within eight months and couples normally must have regular medical checkups up until conception. Except they've narrowed the conception deadline down to six months and have also required that checkups be through Saint Mungo's."

"Why bother changing it?" Harry could see no rational reason that the Wizengamot would bother to tell Hermione where she had to get checkups done.

"Honestly, I have no idea—maybe just a power play, maybe to stop her from utilizing Muggle resources, it could be anything."

"Bastards."

"Oh, don't let them off yet," derision leaked from Aubrey's tone. "Couples aren't allowed to get abortions anyway, but they've tacked on for Hermione that she can't use any contraception either."

"How can they fucking even do that?"

Now it was Harry's turn to rub a finger across the back of Ginny's hand, clasped tightly in his own, drawing out commiserative figure eights.

"I know." Audrey said simply.

Ginny shuddered against him. Harry felt like crying.

"Hang in there, it's almost done." Aubrey trudged on. "The law gives nine years, but the Wizengamot shortened that to five, for Hermione to produce two magically proficient children. By law she has to get regular checkup appointments until she has two magically proficient children and the Wizengamot has also required Hermione to have all appointments at St. Mungo's." She began folding the letter and sliding it back into its envelope.

"Is there anything else?" Harry all-but-groaned.

"Just that if she doesn't cooperate she could spend up to three years in Azkaban."

Ginny was staying over with Hermione and would get her to the DMFS the following morning. Sleeping alone in their bedroom that night, Harry dreamed of an army of cherubic toddlers and short Ministry workers encircling him while somewhere he couldn't see, a woman was sobbing.


	3. The New and Inebriated Hermione Granger

The New and Inebriated Hermione Granger

* * *

December 26, 2016 - Short Note: My many, many apologies for being so very late! I promise I _am_ continuing with this story and I will update as often as I am able. I had a great time working on this chapter: Miss Neilson was such a fun character to write and I am incredibly excited to introduce Draco! I am still looking for a beta, so please let me know if you are interested. I appreciate all your feedback and hope you would take a minute to share your thoughts and/or constructive criticism. Finally, I do solemnly swear I am not the dazzling J. K. Rowling. Please Enjoy!

* * *

 _January 11, 2005_

Draco Malfoy was already waiting outside room four hundred and twelve in the Department of Marriage and Family Stability by 7:38 on Tuesday morning. He'd arrived an hour early just to be certain he would be there before her—to be sure that he would have some type of upper hand, however small, over the witch. He sat straight-backed on the uncomfortable bench, keeping his hands splayed on his kneecaps as if utterly at ease in order to stop himself from fidgeting. But Draco's fingers itched to move; every minute or so he caught his foot tapping or his knee bouncing and he'd return to his quiet stance only to have it broken again.

Draco was extremely nervous. How did one greet their forcibly-betrothed after having tormented the witch for six years, witnessed her torture at the hands of their aunt, had their life saved by her multiple times, and then not spoken to her for six years over which the said betrothed had vehemently protested the legislation that forced her into the aforementioned marriage? Hell if he knew.

He only remembered Granger as the girl he'd known almost ten years ago. Merlin knows how different she could be after all this time—look at him. Granger could have gone rouge. His lips quirked upwards in the slightest hint of laughter at the thought. The papers had been unusually silent on the witch of late and Draco was lacking updates on her behavior. Was she still connected at the hip to Potter and Weasley? Did she still have that incredibly bossy attitude? And _that_ hair? The last time he had laid eyes on Hermione Granger had been two years before in a Ministry courtroom.

* * *

 _October 15, 2002_

" _All_ magic leaves its trace. No curse leaves the victim unscathed, whether the caster successfully _or unsuccessfully_ executes the spell. Even the feeblest Cruciatus Curse is not benign, even the least competent Imperius Curse alters the victim's will, and so even the uncomplete Killing Curse does render harm. Mr. Potter's survival is— _famously—_ unprecedented and while the myriad of harm that such exposure to dark magic may have wreaked upon him is unknown, impotency is known to be a _permanent and irreversible_ effect of the Killing Curse in all prior cases."

Seated nearly fifty feet above where Granger stood, he watched quietly from the back of the courtroom, hidden by the shadows, as the tiny witch railed against the Wizengamot.

"Thus, by all medical standards, impotency is a direct side effect of the Killing Curse."

It was absurd. It was an impossible case—Draco, his associates, and _every_ other wizarding attorney in the country had said so. And yet she had found that single technicality.

"And since there is indisputable proof that Mr. Potter has been victim of the Killing Curse on at least one occasion—nevermind four—he is impotent."

When he'd heard Granger was attempting to get Potter exempted from the law by arguing that impotence was side effect of the Killing Curse Draco hadn't believed it. She was untrained in magical law. But she'd done it. She'd done what no one else could've. They were going to have to rule with her, Draco was sure of it. Her argument was immaculate.

"Your Honors, the decision is yours but I trust you will see you have only one choice to make."

Her voice rang clear through the courtroom much like it had at his own trial. She was more haggard now, more gaunt—something that surprised him considering she'd just fought a war then, but she'd had a rough summer of it, Draco supposed. He'd seen her face printed across every Wizarding tabloid to be found for the past three months.

"Whatever faults the law may have," Granger's speech cut through his thoughts. "Whatever faults it may have are not in dispute today. No, today it is this court's only obligation to execute and enforce the law as it is written. After all, this court has not wavered in defense of this law. The prosecution rests."

She took her seat and Draco let the ministry official's words blur together. It struck him again that she was an absolute genius legally. Again he wondered about the rumors flying around her; nearly all of them were obviously false, some so blatantly false he was shocked Rita Skeeter wasn't behind bars for slander. Yet Draco sensed a morsel of truth behind the speculation. _Something_ —though he was positive it was not a series of mysterious lovers, a black market potions scheme, and most definitely not goblin business dealings gone wrong—had gone in Granger's life. It was a shame her Ministry career at the DRCMC was brief; she would have undoubtedly done a great deal for the rights of magical creatures especially considering her prowess in court. She had spoken at his trial. On his behalf.

* * *

 _August 17, 1998_

She stood up from the witness bench, where she'd been sitting between Potter and Weasley, clutching tightly at the folded square of parchment in her fist and looking nervous enough to keel over at any second. But she managed to make her way unsteadily to the lectern at the center of the floor. Gripping the podium with white fingers Granger unfolded the paper and smoothed out the creases. And then she began to speak in a trembling, agonized, resounding voice that echoed through the room with determined conviction.

"You would condemn Draco Malfoy? You would condemn a person for believing what they were taught from birth by all of those who loved them, by their peers and classmates, by their society? You would condemn him to an indignity, the most unhuman, _the most inhumane_ of ends? For what? For actions he took at the threat of death? Actions taken to protect his loved ones? Actions of a sixteen year old boy—a sixteen year old child thrust into war far too early? You would rob him of life for succumbing to the will of a madman, to the bigotry of _this_ society, to the fear of death? While _you_ did what? While _you_ quietly moved out of harm's way? Denied Voldemort's return? As _you_ kept your own heads down, _your_ own families safe, _your_ own mouths shut? As _you_ went on in your jobs knowing – knowing the whole time that Voldemort was the puppeteer behind the Ministry, knowing that _eleven year olds_ were being subjected to the cruelty of Amycus and Alecto Carrow, knowing that innocent and undeserving witches and wizards were being rounded up by this very administration? There are people in this room who participated far more actively, far more eagerly, and under far less pressure than Draco Malfoy ever did. There are some in this room who still hold delusions of blood purity. There are many in this room who inadvertently contributed to the mania of Voldemort and many who stood by and let persecution happen without raising a word of opposition. There are few in this room whom I would consider to be any less guilty than you claim Draco Malfoy to be. And every member of this court had every reason, every responsibility, every year of experience to know better. If this is justice, then I wonder if Voldemort's defeat meant anything. If Draco Malfoy is guilty, then how many of _you_ are due to accompany him? How many here did far worse than avoid death, than protect your families, than survive for a year with Voldemort in the next room? If you ask me or Ron or Harry, only a hypocrite or a fool would convict Draco Malfoy."

She did not speak long. In fact, she spoke less than any of the other witnesses. Draco did not care. She'd condemned the entire courtroom for him. There was absolute stunned silence as she crossed back to her seat between friends. He sat next to his lawyer as dazed as the rest of the room.

For months fear and anger and vicious self-loathing had been clawing him apart. He didn't want to spend his life devoid of happiness, rotting away in Azkaban; he was terrified of who he might be; and he was even more fearful of being condemned to be the person he was now for the rest of his life. He hadn't made either his choices or his actions by himself—so many other voices and forces had urged him, threatened him and he hated them all for making him what he was. Draco hated himself most of all: for the horrible things he had done and said, for the things he had not done, had not said, for letting himself become what he was.

Granger's damning logic jolted Draco from his depressed paralysis. He wasn't special in his monstrosity. Before him sat and entire amphitheater of cowards and accomplices, who were going to go on living their lives. For a second Draco felt an intense burning fury: look at the hypocrites. At least _he_ accepted responsibility for his actions, at least _he_ was going to face the consequences. But then, resolute determination took hold instead. So he hated who he was, then he would change. He despised those Wizengamot wizards and witches for feigning innocence, then he would repent and he would amend his wrongs until he had repaid his debt tenfold. For all his wrongs, he had no right to be angry any longer; for all his wrongs, he was one of many; for all his wrongs, he had an obligation to fulfill.

Little thought entered his mind through the rest of the proceedings and it was only later that night, when Draco was safely back in his bed at the Manor, that his mother told him he had been acquitted.

He continued to fight an ongoing battle with depression, for sobriety, and against the discrimination that now plagued him, curtesy of the brand on his forearm. Between the nightmares, crippling self-loathing, and drunken hazes that sense of infinite determination and duty crept its way back in—a persistent reminder of what life could be like, of why he was still fighting for life.

* * *

 _October 15, 2002_

Draco turned his attention back to the floor of the courtroom and the pacing Wizengamot official. Granger sat seat next to Potter and the accompanying assortment of freckled redheads.

"All sufficient proof of spell damage has been demonstrated. Mr. Potter has suffered the Killing Curse on multiple occasions and though he miraculously avoided death, by all evidence of the curse's effects and the inevitable magical harm still incurred, this court finds Mr. Potter impotent and exempt from the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act. As the law stands, all necessary proof for the decision has been evidenced. Court adjourned."

When the verdict was announced she smiled broadly, accepted Potter's thanks and congratulations, and quickly left the courtroom with the group. Draco waited in the wings, watching the Wizengamot gradually trickle out in different states ranging from disgruntled annoyance to shock to good humor. He waited until only a few interns remained, gathering members' notes and forgotten cloaks, before leaving himself, slipping unnoticed from the courtroom.

* * *

 _January 11, 2005_

That was the last he had seen of her since and, apart from occasional mentions in the paper, the last he had heard of her for almost nine months up until the following June—

Draco was abruptly drawn from his thoughts as Granger arrived on the arm of Ginny Weasley, disheveled and gruesomely hungover. The pair had barely stepped out of the lift when Potter came barreling down the hallway, a small vial in hand. He wrapped Granger in a brief hug, placed a peck on Weasley's cheek and the vial in her hand. Then, pausing to hurl a warning glare at him, Potter turned on his heel and left as quickly as he'd come, calling over his shoulder, "Good luck Hermione! Got to run, sorry!"

The Weasley witch handed the bottle—of what Draco now recognized to be a hangover potion—to Granger and then rounded to face him. Behind her Granger eyed the foul sludge in an appraising manner that strongly suggested she was carefully weighing her options.

"A word, Malfoy," Ginny Weasley growled dangerously, jerking him from his curious study, and motioned for him to move a little way down the hall, out of earshot of Granger. He obliged. From the corner of his eye he saw Granger down the potion with a grimace of disgust and take a seat, still looking incredibly out of it.

"Does Granger normally show up ten minutes late, utterly plastered, Weasley? I think it's an important factor to consider before I tie the knot, you know." He said smoothly, icy gray eyes sizing up the woman.

"Hermione doesn't drink. And it's Potter." The redhead snapped quickly.

Oh yes, he remembered seeing the announcement, or rather headline, in the paper maybe three years ago now: _Hero Finds Happiness After Harrowing Hunt._

"No? Just dehydrated then?" Draco quipped.

Amusedly he watched her suck in an annoyed breath and slowly exhale, eyes closed as she composed herself. But then her eyes flashed open suddenly, fierce brown irises boring into his own, and she straightened to stand at her full height of five foot ten. Even though, at six four, he towered over her, under Ginny Weas – Potter's stare he felt six inches shorter.

"Listen, Malfoy," she began in low tones so that Granger would not hear, jabbing a finger at him threateningly. "I've heard that you've changed and maybe you have—I don't know—but frankly, I. Don't. Care. I don't trust you. Period. But Hermione has to marry you and there's nothing I or anyone else can do about it—believe me, if there was she'd have done it by now. So for her sake—and only for her—I will put up with your existence _however much_ I despise you." Her tone left no doubt in his mind that it was _very_ much indeed.

"Take this as a warning, Malfoy, if you cause her a lick of trouble, if you so much as _think_ the word Mudblood, if you hurt _one hair_ on that girl's head, dear Merlin, there will be _no mercy_ for you. Hermione is a sister to me and a second daughter to my family. _Anything_ happens to her and you will have my brothers, my mother, my husband, and _myself_ to face, _understood?_ What happened to your aunt will be a _slap on the wrist_ if you harm her in _any way_. She has been through _enough_. _"_

Draco paused for a second at the ferocious protectiveness in Ginny Potter's words. His eyes darted inquisitively toward Granger. What had happened? Putting aside his questions for a moment, he scrutinized Ginny Potter's freckled face. Her threat might be backed by passion, but it was hollow: she wouldn't act. And he was going to call her bluff.

"And risk Azkaban? Sorry, but I don't believe you. Political sabotage, maybe, but money still pays and… well, I'm not worried. I am curious though, what happened to her, Potter? What could have possibly caused the Gryffindor Golden Girl to turn into a washed up alcoholic? I'd always thought they were lying, but—who knows?—maybe Skeeter was telling the truth. No, don't feel like spilling? That's fine. Even if you don't tell me, I'll find out what deep dark secret Granger's hiding. It's only a matter of time." He said in a slow, sure drawl, carefully watching her reaction. "Oh, I can tell that you're scared Potter. You want to protect her and you just _hate_ having to trust me to behave, don't you?"

Ginny Potter swallowed, a combination sad, angry, and resigned, as though he was telling her what she already feared and she truly wished that he wasn't.

"And you, _you_ can't protect her. She's lost her favor with the Ministry, Potter. They don't like her much after all the trouble she's caused, do they now? So," Draco let his voice turn into a serpentine, silky hiss as the edge of his mouth pulled up into a smirk. "What's to stop me from doing any little thing I please?"

She swallowed again and fixed him with another blazing stare. "Cut the crap, Malfoy. I don't know who it is that you're trying to fool here, but lose the act. I'm here for my friend, not to report back to your bastard father whether or not you're acting appropriately villainous. I wouldn't care if you suddenly turned _purple_ so long as it's not hereditary, for Hermione's sake. Get this through your impossibly evil head: I don't _like_ you. I don't _trust_ you. _I don't care about you,_ Malfoy, but I do care about Hermione and I don't want to see her get hurt again. That's _all_ that matters here. Just – just please, _please_ treat her well."

At that moment, a pompous-looking witch in nauseating frilly brown, blue-trimmed robes stepped out of room four hundred and twelve, causing them both to turn.

"Oh, finally, you're all here." The woman said primly, adjusting her collar, managing to sound surprised and put out at the same time. "Come on then, I don't have all day."

Ginny Potter was already walking away from him, back towards Granger and the impatient Ministry witch.

"Why should I?" He called after her retreating back.

She turned around, red hair swishing, looked him square in the eye and said matter-of-factly, just loud enough that he could hear, "Because she deserves _so much_ better than you and you will _never_ deserve her."

She didn't spare him a second glance as she saw Granger into the room and wrapped her friend in tight hug. He stood there, rooted to the spot for a minute, only moving forward when he noticed the nasty glare the Ministry witch was sending him.

The witch held the door open just long enough for him to enter before stepping away with an impolite haste and letting it slam shut. Draco trailed her, slowly making his way towards the conference room table where Granger sat, looking far more composed than she had minutes before. He lazily eased into the chair beside Granger as the witch click-click-clicked around the long table to sit opposite them.

"Very well, Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger—"

"Ms." Granger corrected.

"—now that you're _both_ here," the Ministry witch, Erica Neilson according to the Department of Marriage and Family Stability badge pinned to the front of her robes, continued with a pointed look at Granger. "We can get started."

She waved her wand—a bland, slightly bent rod, Draco noticed—and a stack of parchment materialized; she flicked her wand again and the tower divided itself, in a flurry of paper, into three neat piles.

"When the Marriage Law was established, the Ministry—" Miss Neilson began, but was cut off by Granger.

"Miss Neilson, we're both very familiar with the law, so there's no need for the speech. You _should_ know this though, I assume you were briefed on our particular situation." Granger said expectantly, an eyebrow raised in question. Miss Neilson nodded grudgingly, looking extremely affronted and flustered at the interruption.

"So then, please do cut to the chase and stop pretending it's true love."

Huffing, Miss Neilson shuffled some papers around, pulled a small pile toward herself and then slid a stack each to Granger and himself.

"Miss Granger," she started but was again interrupted as Granger corrected her. Scowling condescendingly Miss Nielson began once more, _"Ms_. Granger, even though you may not have picked Mr. Malfoy as your husband your compatibility was incredibly high. The tests don't lie. The Ministry worked to ensure—"

"And there's never been a lapse in judgment in the Ministry's secret dealings before?" Granger interjected sarcastically.

"They're hardly secret, Miss Granger." Miss Neilson passed a pamphlet to Granger and pretended not to hear Granger correct her again.

Draco watched Granger's eyes rapidly scanned the page, eyebrows knitting closer together the farther she read.

"Soothsaying," Granger scoffed when she had finished reading. "It's a forced marriage regardless of the results from whatever faulty and conjectural magic helps the Ministry feel justified."

"This magic has been used for centuries—" Miss Neilson grew slightly shriller and her cheeks colored faintly.

"Yes, to execute Pureblood arranged marriages and we all saw how well _that_ turned out."

"It's not magic to laugh at." Miss Neilson insisted.

"I've never much fancied divination, Miss Neilson." Granger returned icily.

Draco fought to stifle his scoff at _that_ gross understatement.

"Now is there anything you _actually_ wish to discuss?"

"You are probably not aware, Miss Granger, but Amendment Twelve allowed for divor—"

"I wrote it, Miss Neilson."

Miss Neilson sputtered like a fish before regaining speech functions. "Well then, Miss Granger, you know what needs to be discussed in the case that you fail to make your marriage work."

Granger gave a quick disbelieving hum.

"Are we able to begin?" As interesting as it was to see this side of Granger, Draco was eager to begin the negotiations of their nuptials before either Granger or Miss Neilson drew wand."

"Oh. Yes, of course. Now, first things firs—"

"For clarity, before we begin, I won't be changing my name."

Both Miss Neilson and Draco froze, but he was quicker to recover.

"And if it were a different name?"

"I'd like Granger just fine, even then." She nodded, understanding his question. "Though, I might be more persuadable."

Their interaction seemed to have flown far above Miss Neilson's head and she butted in tactlessly. "Customarily Miss Granger—"

"Again, it's _Ms._ Granger."

"What? Oh. Well, as I was saying it is customary for a witch to take her husband's name on marriage. It would be a rather significant disregard of tradition—"

"Is it a legally-required custom?"

"Well, no but—"

"Then I see no further reason to discuss the matter. I'm sure you'd agree it's a much bigger disregard of tradition for a Malfoy to marry a muggleborn, no?"

"I don't see why you—"

Draco ignored Miss Neilson, instead answering Granger's couched challenge. "So, our children would be what? Malfoy? Malfoy-Granger?"

Granger blinked. Her eyes studied him intently.

Miss Neilson stopped speaking, finally having grasped that a different conversation was occurring around her.

"I don't want Malfoy." She decided slowly.

"Malfoy-Granger it is." He held her gaze.

Miss Neilson glanced from him to Granger and back, lost.

"Did you have something you wanted to say, or are we supposed to sit here in silence for the next hour?" Draco inquired coolly, making show of impatiently drumming his fingers.

Miss Neilson started, curling away from him slightly.

"At this time if either you or Miss Granger—"

" _Ms._ Granger—"

"—have anything you would like to request as part of your marriage contract, you may do so."

"A fidelity clause." Miss Neilson had hardly finished before the words left his mouth.

Granger's head snapped towards him.

Eagerly, Miss Neilson began prattling. Draco's focus was on Granger. "Yes, that's a very good precaution to put in place. Just in case. You never really know, after—"

 _"_ _What?!"_ Granger's strangled cry came after a minute of shock. " _You_ want a fidelity clause."

"Yes, I do."

"Why?" Draco found himself slightly taken aback at Granger's utter shock and confusion.

"Because I don't want my wife sleeping with other men." He didn't miss the way she flinched when he said wife.

"So, it's fine for _you_ to go hopping from bimbo to bimbo's bed, yet you expect _me_ —"

"It'd go both ways, of course." Draco ended her scolding. "I have no desire to hop—or move in any other fashion—from beds of women who are not my wife." Again, Draco noted how she winced. His words had calmed her outrage and she seemed rather at a loss for what to say.

With her characteristic poor timing, Miss Neilson spoke. "There is a traditional fidelity clause, I'll add it for you now."

"No."

"Pardon?" Miss Neilson turned to him in confusion. "You don't want—"

Draco ignored her, he was focused upon Granger. "I want a legal guarantee that we'll both remain faithful."

She eyed him hard. There was a deliberateness in her words when she spoke. "I'll give you my word. But I won't agree to something that allows for torture."

"I don't mean an archaic version. We can write out own agreement—"

"Unless there are penalties attached then there is no reason a legal contract is needed." It was a valid point, Draco admitted. Granger continued definitively. "No. I will give you my word."

Draco cast a sidelong look at Miss Neilson—who was watching them intently—and sighed.

"Could we have a moment alone?" He asked, steeling himself for the woman's indelicacy.

"A moment alone? Why—"

Draco saw a flash of movement under the table and then Granger discretely sliding her wand back into her robes. Across the table, Miss Neilson had stopped mid-sentence and was vigorously rubbing at her ears.

While he watched in confusion, Granger turned towards him. "Forgive me if I'm wary of a thousand year old history of marriage through history." Her tone was venomous.

He'd known she wouldn't trust him—not that she'd have reason to—but here was the crutch of the issue: she was afraid of losing control.

Draco kept his tone soft calm. "This isn't to try to trap you. I know you hate this law, but like it or not we are going to have to get married and we are going to have to have kids together. I don't want to not be on speaking terms with the mother of my children and I don't want my kids not to know both their parents because we," Draco gestured to the two of them. "Because we never bothered to make our marriage work."

Granger stared at him.

"I give you my word. You say you want monogamy?"

Draco nodded.

"I won't betray that trust. I give you my word." She said again. "Still, I refuse to allow the Ministry and Wizengamot an opportunity to meddle further in my life. There will be no fidelity clause."

Draco was silent, mulling over her words. Did he want the Ministry in his bedroom? No. And he believed her when she gave him her word.

He held her gaze firmly. "Your word?"

"My word."

"Then I agree."

Their sidebar complete, Granger's wand moved covertly again—entirely undetectable to Miss Neilson—and the other witch slowly lowered her hands from clawing at her ears.

"There will be no fidelity clause." Draco glanced again at her. "Are you alright, Miss Neilson, you look rather ill."

"No, no. I'm fine."

He was curious to know what spell Granger had used—it wasn't anything they had learned it school and he doubted it was regulation.

"Then shall we continue?" Granger seemed to eye Miss Neilson with a beady glee.

Under Granger's scrutiny, Miss Neilson straightened and readjusted her papers.

"Mr. Malfoy has already filed all of his financial information, so if you would just confirm a few things."

Granger nodded that, yes, she would.

"Wonderful." Miss Neilson said with a tightlipped smile, scanning over the paperwork. "Your Gringotts holdings are valued at less than, three hundred and fifty galleons correct?"

Granger nodded.

"What!" He didn't intend to interrupt, but the shock escaped.

Irritated, Granger glared at Draco expectantly. "Yes?"

"How – how – how it that possible?"

"I buy a lot of books." She said dryly, turning back to Miss Neilson.

His brow furrowed. How in the world had she spent all that money already? But more pressingly, what would happen if he died? If they had kids by then?

"We need to combine assets then."

Miss Neilson stopped, but Granger didn't even look at him. "No."

"You are _destitute,_ Grange—"

"I am hardly destitute. We will not be combining assets."

"But—"

"And certainly not at _this_ time."

Her meaning made clear, he closed his mouth and nodded.

"Right then. _Ms._ Granger, you currently rent an apartment and have no other real estate holdings, correct?"

A nod.

"And your lease is up at the end of the month?"

Another nod.

"Uh-huh. Alright then, just two last questions _Ms._ Granger, your employer and your salary?"

Quietly Granger murmured an answer.

"Oh, unemployed I see—most unfortunate really. Well that's all," Miss Neilson simpered with fake cheeriness, looking up from her note taking and smiling cruelly at Granger. "It seems that you'll be moving into Malfoy Manor with Mr. Malfoy."

" _What?_ " Granger barked.

Miss Neilson jumped slightly in surprise and went about straightening her papers while she answered slowly, as if to a small child. "Well, _Ms._ Granger, the law states that those with an annual income under nine hundred and ninety-six galleons are required to move in with the providing partner as to ensure the couple's financial security. And, _Ms._ Granger, since your income is _zero_ galleons a year, you are quite definitively unable to be considered the providing partner."

Granger's eyes widened, horrified, and Draco realized that somehow, precisely where their union would require her to live had only connected now. He wondered if maybe she hadn't known he still lived at the Manor.

"I – I wish to apply for a—" Regaining her wits, Granger interrupted the woman's ongoing diatribe.

"I'm _terribly afraid_ that it's rather impossible for you to do that." Miss Neilson's tone was as sickly sweet as ever when she cut in. "You see, your rental payments have been… well, let's just say _remiss_ of late and the Ministry has become aware of your eviction notice for the end of this month. Even without mentioning _that_ little pickle, whether identified by the Ministry or applied for by the couple, the providing partner is required to have at least some amount of income. And you simply fail to qualify Miss Granger. Had you _actually_ bothered to read the law—"

Granger snapped across Miss Neilson for the fifteenth time. "Please do not insult my intelligence, Miss Neilson. there is _no way in hell_ that I will ever live with him in _that_ place! I would like to speak to the Minister about this or to one of your superiors at the very least."

"That's _quite enough,_ Miss Granger!" Miss Neilson burst out angrily, smacking her hands against the tabletop as she stood suddenly from her seat to glare down at Granger.

"Ms.—" Granger interjected but the incensed witch paid her no mind.

"I don't care who you are or who you know, Miss Granger, you will not patronize me! You are not the only person affected by this law and would do well to remember it. I will not put up with entitled witches like yourself thinking that they are some poor victim who deserves special treatment. You are not above the law, Miss Granger!" She was shouting now, fury coloring her face bright red.

"I know about all the trouble you've caused the poor Minister and all the sneaky little tricks you've played trying to weasel your way out and all the false accusations you've made! Don't dare to presume you know better than the Ministry, Miss Granger, because you don't! After everything you've done, you should be eternally grateful that the Minister hasn't already locked you away. The world doesn't revolve around you, Miss Granger, and it's time you stopped acting so immaturely and took responsibility for your actions!"

"Wha—" Granger started to ask, in utter bemused outrage, but Erica Neilson wasn't about to be stopped.

Draco's own mouth was agape at the woman's audacity—and cattiness. But it was what the woman said next that sent him over the edge.

"I'll have you know that while you've been off gallivanting around, your selfish behavior has kept Mr. Malfoy here waiting for a year and a half! How dare you behave so rudely when this poor man's life was put on hold because you think you're above everyone else? If I were you—"

"Thankfully you are _most certainly not_ her, Miss Neilson, because if I was supposed to marry _you_ I'd be protesting this law as much as Ms. Granger." Draco cut clear across the miserable woman in a low and deadly drawl. How dare she paint him as a victim of Hermione Granger? He was a _Death Eater._ He bore the mark. And Granger—Granger was about as saintly as anyone he knew.

"Miss Neilson don't dare to presume that _you_ _of all_ people know best. And, if _I were_ _you_ I wouldn't speak to my _fiancée_ in that way. In fact, I would be much more respectful to Ms. Granger in general, _Erica."_ Erica Neilson bristled uncomfortably as he continued. "I highly doubt that this little display of yours would play over well with the Minister either. A lowly assistant defending a," Draco paused to savor the irony of his next words, "a _Death Eater's_ _honor_ from a renowned war hero." He finished off in nearly a hiss, eyes narrowing at her as she nervously arranged papers.

No one spoke for a few minutes: the only noise came from Miss Neilson's incessant straightening but Draco could practically hear the cogs in Granger's brain whirring beside him as she processed the situation.

Finally, Miss Neilson said in a very small voice, "Shall I continue?"

Granger remained subdued for the rest of the meeting, seemingly lost in thought and barely saying a word. Periodically Draco glanced over at her, her silence making Weasl – Potter's words from earlier all the louder in his head. _"I don't want to see her get hurt again. That's all that matters here. Just – just please, please treat her well."_ And for some reason, he decided to listen.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Miss Neilson repeated, interrupting his thoughts.

"Sorry, could you repeat the question?" Draco said, shaking his head clear.

"Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger, would you like to include the Marriage Clauses in your—"

"No!" He cut in quickly, disgusted at the suggestion.

The Marriage Clauses were a series of stipulations common in Pureblood marriage contracts that dated back to medieval Wizarding law. Had Granger been fully engaged, she would have, undoubtedly, wasted no time in informing him and Miss Neilson of the various ways that they robbed witches of power. Not that he needed convincing—he'd seen the abuse firsthand: from the glamor charms of housemates' mothers to the frightened look of Pureblood fiancées to his own father's angry shouting. He could hardly imagine the same happening to Granger without nausea rising in his stomach—it just seemed so… wrong.

"I'd like to specifically state that none of the Marriage Clauses or any other Pureblood provisos are included in our contract." Draco added suddenly, and in the back of his mind Ginny Potter's voice echoed: "please, _please_ just treat her well."

"Just write that here," Miss Neilson indicated the proper place. "And then sign your name on the line below."

When he was done, Miss Neilson passed the parchment to Granger, who scrawled her name at the bottom without so-much-as glancing at the text, and then neatly placed it with the other hundred pages, straightening the stack.

"And sign at the bottom here," Miss Neilson instructed him, sliding forward the last form.

He did.

"Miss Granger, if you would."

Again Granger wrote her own name, without really seeing. And again Miss Neilson added the page to the pile and carefully straightened the stack. She tapped the papers a few times with her wand and then sent the whole tower zooming out of the room.

Primly she turned to face them. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, you're legally married."

That seemed to finally shake Granger from her thoughts.

"Wha—" But Draco was faster.

"It's _still_ Ms. Granger, Erica." He said, coldly eyeing the woman who stiffened under his stare.

"Yes, well," Miss Neilson shifted uncomfortably.

* * *

Finally rid of the horrid woman, Draco strode through the street of muggle London enjoying the mild weather. Over the years, his ignominy in the Wizarding World had decreased but he had grown to prefer to anonymity of the muggle world where there was no concern of slurs, assault, or shopkeepers refusing service. Apart from the necessary trips to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade for robes or potions supplies he kept most of his outings in muggle London.

Ginny Weasl—Potter was there waiting outside when the meeting ended. Draco couldn't help but observe how Granger all-but collapsed into her friend's arms just steps from the door. He toyed with the idea of illness but decided that Granger's fatigue appeared more stress-ridden, like he had been in his sixth year. Still, whatever the matter was, Weasley was his ticket—as close as she and Granger seemed to be. Draco needed an ally if he was to survive this marriage. He knew nearly nothing about his fiancée and he was quickly beginning to doubt the truth of the little he did know—Granger today was an entirely different entity than the Granger from his Hogwarts days.

So now, Draco found himself sitting on the shiny red vinyl seat of his favorite diner, attempting to write a letter to Ginny Weas—no—Potter between bites of his Reuben and efforts to fend off the waitress.

"Is there anything else I can get for you?"

The girl could only have been eighteen at most, Draco thought. Her voice was cooing, and she was ogling him openly, twirling a strand of her strawberry-blonde hair and blinking just a little too rapidly to be natural. He idly wondered if she would be doing the same thing if she knew even a fraction more about him. Swallowing his disgust at the girl's misplaced affections, he waved her away, and placed pen to paper to restart for a sixth time.

 _Potter (nee Weasley),_

 _No, you're right. I never will. I still need some answers though. Hog's Head. Five thirty._

 _D. Malfoy_


End file.
